As Academician Mr. Poynter has a share in the teaching in the Royal Academy. As art director his influence extends through the art schools and artisans' classes throughout the kingdom, even to the art teaching of the children in the elementary schools. In public, at the Social Science Congress at Liverpool and elsewhere, he has spoken words of sober sense to the nation in a simple, strong, authoritative way. If his influence and his words help to call forth something of the same spirit of fidelity and thoroughness in work as characterises himself, if he rouses higher aims and nobler ideals in the mass of workers, he will do what is sorely needed in these days of dilatory workmen and scamped work, when less work for more money is the constant cry. Much as it is to be regretted that the pressure of his official duties must limit the number of his own paintings, and possibly even may impair the quality of them by dividing his powers, yet to accomplish such a work of art as this on the canvas of humanity will be an even more enduring memorial than the noblest creation of his brush. It is a difficult problem to forecast what is to become of the great army of artists that are being trained. Genius, of course, will make its own way—there seems no cause at present to fear that the world will be overstocked with that yet awhile. An ever-increasing number of trained students, also, are being absorbed into the various developments of art industry, to the great good of our technical results. Doubtless, too, many have taken up the study of art rather as an accomplishment to elevate and grace them in private life than for any practical end; but for the rest, those multitudes of men and women who may be seen shabbily dressed copying in picture galleries and museums, painting in the Botanical Gardens, and wherever else students can gain admittance, or planting their easels all over the country, what is to become of these? Their productions are already such a drug in the market that one of the best known art auctioneers declared the other day that it was useless for him to attempt to sell anything that had not a name to back it up, as the work of unknown artists, even when good work, barely fetched the value of the frame. The perfection to which oleographs and photographs have been brought is thrusting out this class of work, while, at the same time, the quantity of it is increasing. The colonies may afford an outlet for some of it, but doubtless before long the colonies will train their own artists. It seems premature to conclude that so much material should, as at first sight one might be drawn to judge, have to be wasted, or so many young enthusiasts doomed to disappointment. There are hundreds of painters whose work singly is of little value, and yet, if organised in bands, and working under the direction of men of genius, they might collectively produce public works of great utility and beauty. England might rival the ancient Egyptians in the abundance of her wall-paintings. We might have such temples of religion, and such nobly decorated public buildings, as would make her the wonder of the world, and at no very extravagant cost. Many artists now half-starving, or eking out a scanty subsistence by any means in their power, would be glad to be engaged on such works for wages which would just insure them the necessaries of life. A few artists employ young assistants in their studios. It was customary with the old masters to do so, and the practice might with advantage be extended in the present day. When the artist makes the cartoons and does the last finishing with his own hand, much of the intermediate work can be equally well performed by deputy, for there are many who can acquire manipulative skill, while but few possess the creative faculty. Thus a greater number of the best works would be produced, and so produced as to bring them within the means of many to purchase who cannot now afford the luxury of possessing noble works of art. These are but crude suggestions, but it is a subject that ought to be faced, and other and more practicable suggestions made, and something attempted to be done; for it will be a grievous blot on our civilization if the National Art Schools turn out a large proportion of their trained students merely to swell the ranks of middle-class destitu tion by a new and highly-cultured army that no one cares to put in commission. Professor Poynter is one of those rare persons who take office under Government on account of interest in the work offered to them, and not because a salary is attached to the post. Without being pragmatical, he is not likely to succumb to the traditions of that not most noble herd which, browsing in the comfortable pastures of the State, only too readily follows the accepted motto of Government service, "Above all things, no zeal!" IN THIS WORLD: A NOVEL. By MABEL COLLINS, Author of "An Innocent Sinner," &c. Continued from Vol. I., page 697. CHAPTER XXV. IN PRACTICE. ERNESTINE had now a two-fold purpose in pursuing the labours of her profession with all her native ardour. First came her grand enthusiasm for healing-that love of the art itself by which the true artist is known. And then came a second motive which grew stronger day by day. Laura's revelation of the network of money difficulties in which she and her uncle stood, and her statement-vague indeed, but none the less alarming because so vague -that certain conditions had to be fulfilled before her fortune could bring them freedom, filled Ernestine's soul with a personal horror. When Laura told her these things she had already put on her wedding-ring; and she realised, as she sat in the fernery in her weddingrobe, that, unless she speedily obtained some profitable practice of her own, she too would be dependent upon Laura's inheri tance. "Doubtless," she had said to herself, "Laura calculates upon this: she expects me to become her tool because she holds the key to my husband's ruin or success in her hands." This thought had figuratively taken Ernestine's breath away; she had allowed Laura to leave her, and had said no further word. But now, strengthened by her sojourn by the sea, she had returned with a burning resolution in her heart. She did not understand what conditions Laura had to fulfil. She turned her mind from the subject, for she could see no course of action which she could adopt with regard to it. But a resolve burned strongly within her that she would not personally add to Dr. Doldy's expenses-that she would not be dependent on him. The thought stung too deeply that, by allowing herself to be maintained in his household, she would make herself one of those whose hopes and fears hung upon the obtaining of Laura's fortune. So she set herself vigorously to work. She took Dr. Doldy's household in hand, and applied her intellectual abilities to the curtailing of unnecessary expenses: she visited some few patients who had already attached themselves to her; she obtained permission to attend at certain operations performed by eminent surgeons, in order to carry on her observations; and between whiles she was fond of frequenting the little ante-chamber which divided her husband's consulting room from her own. At first this pleased him very much: it was so charm ingly new. It was so deliciously unlike the solitariness of his past life to rise from his chair whenever his room was empty, and have the chance, by just looking through a door, of seeing a face which, as he believed, was the most lovely that had ever come from the Creator's hand. Sometimes he would find it difficult to convince himself that this chance really existed; and then, if he called her, and there was no answer or if he rose and looked into her room, and found it empty -he was deeply disappointed; so that Ernestine's hoverings on the margin of his room were very welcome, and he was merely amused when she assured him, out of the simplicity of her heart, that she only came there to try and catch his manner-not for the pleasure of being near him. He did not believe her, of course-what man would? The Often when he looked into her room-that room which he had so carefully furnished and filled with his love-if she sat there, as he sometimes found her, alone, he would pause and marvel at the picture; for to him the commencement of their home life was more filled with romance than any other part of their connection. atmosphere of his existence received a different colour when he found that this woman, whose intelligence he admired and whose beauty he worshipped, really took up a peaceful and domesticated life by his side. It was so delightful a surprise to him to find Ernestine giving orders to the cook and looking after the household, that he began to think his idea that she would speedily surrender any ambition in her profession and settle down as his wife, was being already proved true. And it brought an additional tinge of rose-colour to his existence to find Ernestine so little assertive and so truly womanly in her daily life: his wildest hopes of happiness were being realised. His professional duties had become so easy to him by long habit that, though he returned to take up the routine of work, yet, with Ernestine performing so admirably all the part he desired her to his dreamland was unbroken. But Ernestine's nature was kept alive by stings of which he knew nothing. The desire to obtain some foothold in her profession was deeper than he supposed, because she had more reasons than he knew of to aim at a success of her own. She lived from day to day in a certain dread of her first meeting with Laura alone; her practical efforts in the household were prompted by something very different from that desire to please him to which he attributed them. the feeling that her actions must often be misunderstood by him made her sensitive to the last And degree. There was but little dreamland for her. Her mind, indeed, was unnaturally wakeful; and it was only when quite alone with him that, in realising how completely he was still enwrapped in the glamour of their love, she herself became conscious of the refreshment she found in it. But, when she sat in her consulting room, or haunted the little ante-chamber, it was not to realise the near presence of one she loved. To him that nearness was a continual delight, and the least sound which reached his ears would call his mind from the most difficult and absorbing diagnosis; and the patient, if chancing to gaze into his face, would wonder at the faint smile that passed over it. His mind had momentarily turned aside from its work to realise the happiness which filled his heart. Ernestine in her present state was incapable of any such tempo rary oblivion of work. She followed out his cases with an intense keenness, throwing upon each the light of her recent studies and the experience gained from observations which she was daily making under the guidance of the most skilful operators and physicians. She hardly ever mentioned medical or professional matters to him; very occasionally she would ask him for an explanation of some symptom in one of her own patients, but she never made any remark upon his. Only once did she break this rule. A lady of title had just left his consulting room, and Ernestine had been partly amused and partly disgusted with the interview. The lady told him how ill, how very ill she was; she hinted at domestic troubles which had overwhelmed her delicate organisation. Dr. Doldy with some difficulty extracted her symptoms from her and made rapid notes of them; and while actually engaged in writing these and mentally reviewing the case, he, by a double brain action which Ernestine marvelled at, was able to lean a little forward towards the afflicted lady and say in delicately respectful tones "Madam, your nerves are shattered-absolutely shattered-absolutely shattered!" Ah!" was the reply, in a deepdrawn voice of self-admiration, "I knew it. Oh, Doctor, is it possible to restore me to anything like health?" "If you take the greatest care of yourself, I believe it will be possible. But you must remember, Madam, into her room as the patient left his. He found her sitting on a low chair in the window, through which the sunlight streamed upon her bright hair and face so full of strong life. The contrast between her and the woman who had just left him struck him strangely at the moment. "I am often in wonder" he said, standing and looking down upon her, "what makes you so different from other women; is it intellectual activity which gives you such a vividness of life, or is it the natural possession of that life which enables you to sustain the intellectual activity ?" "You know," she answered, "which I believe in. 'To think is to live' once said a man who was almost wise. But don't talk of that now; my intellectual activity demands to know, just at present, why you, an honest man, should tell that lady that her nerves shattered?" are "Because it was medicinally good for her: it pleased and soothed her." His tone had changed. Ernestine looked questioningly up at him. She said nothing farther for a moment, and then put an inquiry in a voice from which she had extracted all the brightness. "What is the matter with her? "Nothing!" replied Dr. Doldy; and, walking to another window, looked out. "I thought, at least, she must have had heart disease," she said. For about a minute there was silence, and then Dr. Doldy came and sat down by her side and began to talk of something else. He was much too deeply in love to be driven from the sunshine of her society by unspoken disapproval. Ernestine said no more; but she treasured these things up in her heart. She began to understand. |